


Believe

by 221Btls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Relationship status: married, Soulmates, reference to past drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 09:38:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12885126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: Even happy marriages have their challenges. Fortunately, John is married to a man who believes in him. Completely.





	Believe

Contemplating the gold wedding band he rolled between his forefinger and thumb, John blew out a shaky breath, and decided. It wasn’t the first time he’d decided, but this time it would be the last. It had to be, before he made himself crazy from the uncertainty. He set his ring on the mantel, a muffled clink of soft metal meeting wood. But he didn’t release the ring. He couldn’t. Not yet. 

Mentally searching the kitchen, he tried to remember if behind the closed cupboard doors there was still a bottle that held a finger or two of liquid fire. Enough to get him through the next few minutes. Enough to get him out the door.

But the wedding picture, beside where he’d set the ring, distracted him from his quest for alcohol. In the picture were two men, so devastatingly in love. His own face, beaming up at Sherlock with such wonder. Christ, he’d been so fucking happy, barely believing that he, John Hamish Watson, had been bestowed the miracle of calling Sherlock “husband.” _His_ husband.

To be honest, three years on and John was still somewhat dazed that Sherlock had chosen him, had made a conscious decision to spend the rest of his life with John. It had taken John time to believe that Sherlock hadn’t been just heading down the path of least resistance. That Sherlock, not wanting to live with anyone else, had decided it might as well be John. And if it meant marrying John, well…

But John had come to accept, and embrace, Sherlock’s capacity to not only love but to love greatly. Passionately. Devotedly. And John had been grateful to start every single fucking day wrapped around a languid, warm Sherlock, listening to his rhythmic breathing. Knowing he loved and was loved. And knowing that it would be the same the next day. And the next. 

And the next. 

John rubbed his forehead. Hard. He’d written a letter. Where’d he put it? Scanning the room, he didn’t see the ivory linen envelope that read simply “Sherlock.”

_Don’t tell me I packed it._

He hadn’t packed much. He’d arrived at the flat with few possessions, and he’d leave with fewer. John didn’t care if he left with nothing because that’s exactly what he deserved. He had betrayed Sherlock.

Catching his reflection in the mirror, John saw dead eyes, shoulders drooping as if those of a man thirty years older. But what struck him most was that what he saw was a coward. John flinched. _Coward._ Not a term he’d ever associated with himself. He’d always taken a certain satisfaction in his… maybe bravery wasn’t the right word, but at least his pragmatism in handling life’s difficulties. He ran toward problems, not away. But not this time. 

He couldn’t tell Sherlock to his face how he’d betrayed him. How, even if Sherlock would forgive him (and how could he?), John couldn’t forgive himself for becoming the most boring of clichés, a cheating spouse. 

The affair had started innocently enough. An absent-minded nod in answer to a smile on an attractive face. A one-off coffee that turned into a second. Flirtatious texting during a slow patch at work that crept into late-night texting while he waited in bed for Sherlock. There had been nothing physical, but the intimacy John and Taylor had shared crossed a line that John couldn’t reconcile himself with. 

Why had he cheated? John just didn’t know. Every day and every restless night for weeks on end, John had dug deep into himself, examining what he’d done. It hadn’t been because he was unhappy with Sherlock, of that he was sure. Yeah, they’d had the occasional tiffs, insignificant spats that flared up quickly and blew over just as fast. But despite their different approaches to life, there’d been nothing that had scarred the easy, natural rhythm they’d shared almost since they’d met. Living together, loving each other, was almost effortless. No, unhappiness wasn’t the problem. 

The downstairs door slammed. _Sherlock isn’t supposed to be home for hours._ Footsteps paused at the bottom of the stairs.

They moved on. 

John doubled over, clasping his knees. Battling for breath. As hard as it was to tell Sherlock goodbye in a letter ( _dear fucking god, “goodbye”_ ), it would be next to impossible to do it in person. It just might kill John to look Sherlock in the eyes and tell him they couldn’t be married anymore. 

_The letter. Where’s that goddamn letter? I need to get out of here._

Patting himself down, John found it in the back pocket of his jeans, wrinkled and bent. Should he read it again? Make sure he got it right? Make sure that Sherlock would know John’s leaving had absolutely nothing, _nothing_ , to do with him? No, no time. He must have gone over it two dozen times, and one more wouldn’t help. 

John pressed the envelope to his lips and inhaled, the absence of the cologne he usually daubed on Sherlock’s letters causing him to blink back moisture in his eyes. These were the things he would have to get used to, the acts that on the surface seemed minor but had been so important in keeping Sherlock and him feeling connected. Feeling loved up. He slipped the envelope underneath his wedding band on the mantel and, as he turned to pick up his travel bag, he took a last painful look at the faces in the photo. They had been so, so happy. 

The downstairs door slammed again and, this time, John had no doubt the footsteps were Sherlock’s. Panicked, John shoved the ring onto his finger, kicked his bag to the side of his chair. Threw the letter into the fireplace. And as John frantically poked at the letter, drowning it in the pile of ash and embers, he heard Sherlock bound up the last few steps. John dropped the poker and whirled around just as Sherlock appeared in the doorway. 

Sherlock paused with his hand on the door as if he sensed something amiss. He looked only at John, yet somehow, it seemed as if he saw everything. John struggled to appear casual, fought to keep his eyes from straying to his bag ( _can Sherlock see the handle?)_ as Sherlock walked into the flat and closed the door. 

“You’re home early. Thought you went to Bristol.” John forced the sides of his mouth into a smile, hoping that the flame he felt on his cheeks wasn’t visible. Knowing that if it were a normal day, he would be moving into Sherlock’s arms. But today wasn’t normal. 

“Slow day at the clinic?” Removing his gloves with an agonizing deliberation that took him forever, Sherlock continued to rest his gaze on John. An intent, almost unblinking stare that meant Sherlock’s thought processes were in hyperdrive.

John smiled harder. His hands clasped behind his back, he fidgeted with his wedding ring. Knowing that now was the time he should say something. He couldn’t be a coward forever. 

The frown that had been pinching Sherlock’s face evaporated, leaving him expressionless. Whisking off his scarf and then his coat, with more care than usual, Sherlock draped them over the back of John’s chair. “John, I—whatever I’ve done, you needn’t take such a drastic step as to leave. I assure you, I never meant—” 

John flinched. This was exactly what he’d hoped to avoid, Sherlock blaming himself. “What? No, Sherlock. Christ, no. It wasn’t anything you did.” 

“Something I said, then. I know my filter—" 

“No, Sherlock. Not you. Never you.” Shite, he was making a mess of this. “Me, Sherlock, it was me. And I—I just can’t...” He met Sherlock’s eyes, mere feet away, yet it felt like miles. A jumble of emotions flooded John—self-loathing, sorrow, empathy for Sherlock—and he wished he hadn’t so carelessly tossed the letter into the fire. He needed the words he couldn’t say.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. For everything.” John slid his ring off and put it on the mantel, surprised he had the strength to do it a second time. 

Neither man moving, they regarded each other, and John grew light-headed, as if the all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. He needed to move. He needed to get out of there. But Sherlock was between him and the door, and he couldn’t risk Sherlock reaching out and touching him because he just might collapse into Sherlock’s arms and stay there. And he wasn’t worthy of that. Not anymore.                          

Sherlock solved the problem for him. Snapping out of his daze, Sherlock spun and headed for the bedroom. 

As much as John knew he deserved Sherlock’s abrupt dismissal, it hurt, and picking up his bag, he took a moment to collect himself. But as he stood there, odd noises came from their—no—Sherlock’s bedroom. A bang here, a scuffle there. It sounded as if Sherlock were pinging off the walls. _What the hell is he doing?_

It came to him. Sherlock was searching for drugs. It’d been years since Sherlock had done any, but with the blow John had just handed him, it wasn’t unreasonable to think that, as an addict, he would tear his world apart searching for chemical solace. 

“Goddamn, lamebrained idiot. Hasn’t he learned?” John slammed his bag back to the floor and marched to the bedroom to give Sherlock his due. 

“Now, look here Sherlock, just because you’re unhappy doesn’t mean you—” Flinging open the bedroom door, instead of seeing Sherlock rummaging through his drawers and god knows what other places he could have possibly secreted a stash, Sherlock stood next the bed, stuffing clothing into a travel bag that matched John’s. Looking not at all like a frenzied addict. 

“What’re you doing?” John asked, disconcerted. 

Zipping the bag shut, Sherlock said, “Why, I’m going with you, of course.” 

Unsure of how to respond, John’s mouth gaped. No, he had it. “That’s one of the most ridiculous things I’ve heard of. I’m leaving you. What’s the point of leaving if you go with me?” 

“Exactly, John.” 

John pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. _Fuck. The day started off totally arsed, and it just keeps getting crazier._  

“Listen Sherlock. I’m leaving. It’s not that you did anything wrong; you’ve been perfect. But me, I—I’ve done something. Something we can’t come back from.” 

As if he hadn’t heard John, or, if he had, didn’t understand the portent of what John had said, Sherlock asked, “John, do you remember when I returned from being gone those two years?” 

“Of course.” 

“You’d thought I was dead, and when you found out that I had deceived you, you were angrier than I’d ever seen you.” 

“I believe hurt and devastated are the words you’re looking for.” 

“Hurt and devastated,” Sherlock said, in a tone that made John unsure if it was an apology for bad wording or for what Sherlock had done those years ago. “But whatever other responses you had, would it be fair to say that you also felt betrayed?” 

“Yeah, that’s fair.” _Very fair._  

“You felt betrayed, and yet you saw fit to forgive me. Not only recommencing our friendship but soon agreeing to marry me. Correct?” 

“Yeah,” John said, his arms now folded snugly against his abdomen as he wondered where the hell Sherlock was going with this. 

Sherlock nodded in approval of John’s answer. “And why did you not run the other way when I returned? I hurt you, John. I betrayed you. I belittled the faith you had in me. How could you have ever forgiven me?” 

 _Where did **that** come from? _ Though it’d only been a few years ago, it seemed a lifetime, and it wasn’t a subject John dwelt on. There wasn’t any need, water under the bridge and all that. But with only one possible answer to Sherlock’s question, it took no thought. 

“I forgave you because I believed in you.” 

“Even though I hurt you? Badly?” Sherlock’s gaze penetrated John. 

“Of course, Sherlock. Leaving me out of the loop was thoughtless, but not malicious. You didn’t do it to intentionally hurt me. But why are you bringing that up now?” Lord, he could barely think anymore, he was so tired. Yet here Sherlock was, drilling him like some low-ball attorney. He was closing in on something, but what was it? 

“I bring it up now, John, because just as you have always believed in me, I believe in you.” Sherlock took a small step toward John, shrinking the space between them. “I don’t know what you’ve done, what you find so abhorrent you feel as if you have to leave. My guess is that you suppose you’ve committed some type of infidelity.” 

John grimaced. How well Sherlock knew him. 

“With your heightened sense of loyalty, it would be the one thing that you would think you couldn’t forgive yourself for.” Sherlock took another step closer, close enough to reach out and touch John, but he didn’t. “Or that you think anyone who loves you couldn't forgive you for. Namely, me.” 

John stepped back. He’d worked too hard, gone through too much anguish making the decision to leave. He couldn’t let his weakness for Sherlock tear down the wall he’d put up. Leaving was best. For Sherlock. 

“You don’t know what I’ve done, Sherlock. I’ve betrayed our marriage. Betrayed you. We can’t come back from that.” 

“Isn’t that a decision we should make together, John?” Sherlock didn’t step forward again, but he leaned forward almost imperceptibly, getting as close as he could without sending John running. “I don’t know what act you’ve committed, and I don’t care. All I know is that if we go in different directions, we can’t fix it. Believe in me as you did before, John. Believe in _us._ ” 

Throughout the entire conversation, Sherlock had been calm and reasoned, using his brain to communicate. But now, Sherlock’s posture tightened, and with his eyes, he asked—nay—he beseeched John not to leave. He was leading with his heart. 

Transfixed by his husband’s beloved face, and the compassion and sensibility of what Sherlock had said, John was conflicted. This was why he’d wanted to leave a note, goddammit! John splayed his hand over his mouth, thinking. And through the cacophony of emotions and thoughts fighting for dominance in his brain came an epiphany that sent a white-hot bolt of shame through his body. 

_My greatest betrayal is happening right here, right now. By not believing in Sherlock. By not trusting that we can work together when we have problems. Jesus Christ, I’m a prick._

“What John? What is it?” Sherlock’s brow wrinkled in concern.

“I’ve been a right idiot, Sherlock. Can you ever forgive me?” 

“I thought we’d already established that the answer is yes.” Sherlock held out his hand, palm up. A simple gesture bridging the gap between their bodies. Bridging the gap that a misunderstanding can create in even the best of marriages. “Nothing you could ever do would be so terrible you’d drive me away. That’s not who you are.” 

John took Sherlock’s hand, letting himself be drawn into strong arms. Letting himself be encircled by Sherlock’s warmth as he laid his head against his husband’s chest and was soothed by the rhythm of a steady heartbeat. 

He remembered something his granny, a woman who had been married to his grandad for sixty-odd years, once said: “The early years of marriage are like being a toddler again. You’re full of energy, excited for the new world. And as you make your way through it, you’ll fall on your bum more times than you can count. But as long as you remember there’s someone there to help you back up and dust you off, you’ll be fine. Just fine. Learning to walk takes two. Same thing with marriage.” 

Shifting, John slipped his hands into those that had so lovingly and faithfully pulled him back up from where he had fallen. Knowing that he would never again make the mistake of doubting Sherlock would be there to help him if he were about to stumble. 

“Does this mean we can unpack?” Sherlock asked, kissing the top of John’s head. Kissing his upraised mouth. 

Healing him. 

Not for the first time. And not for the last.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Believe" is a song on Julian Lennon's (John's son) album "Photograph Smiles". I recently discovered this very melodic album and have really come to love it.


End file.
